Here is the Place Where I Love You
by DandelionSunset
Summary: A post-Mockingjay story from the point-of-view of Peeta and Katniss's daughter, about how she was brought up by them, how different they were as parents, and their moments of struggle and sentiment throughout the years.


**Here is the Place Where I Love You**

Growing up being the daughter of the 'Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12' has been nothing short of a whirlwind of constant discovery.

When I was younger, my parents had understandably kept me and my little brother as sheltered as possible for as long as they could, but as I reflect back upon the early years of my life, I can't help wondering how I failed to realize my parents were different than others'. Then again, when you're a child, your parents are simply your parents, and that's all you know or care about. They're merely the people who feed and clothe you, sing you to sleep and hold you through nightmares, play with you and kiss your 'boo-boos' when you fall down. You never really stop to think of who they were before you came along; when you're little, in your mind, they only exist for you.

My parents—specifically my mother—liked to keep our presence low-key so as not to draw the attention of cameras or publicity. She had burn scars on her arms, hands, neck, and the back of her head, and she was self-conscious about people staring at her. As someone who was once a symbol of an uprising and known for her fierce beauty in her youth, it was inevitable for her presence to draw some attention. Though she had done a handful of interviews in the first few years after the war, society eventually went on with their lives and the Capitol, ever obsessed with superficial beauty and eager for people to forget their part in encouraging the Hunger Games, was not keen on keeping a burnt girl in the media for longer than necessary. My mother and father didn't mind fading to the background at all, though. They were grateful to retreat to their hermit lifestyle in the Victor's Village, finding solace in each other as they helped heal each other's emotional wounds.

Though I didn't think anything of it at the time, I suppose the first time I ever noticed anything peculiar was on my third birthday. I'd never been to town before that summer day and, despite my mother's protests, my father enthusiastically insisted that we should go so I could pick out a toy. He reasoned that it had been so long that people probably wouldn't even recognize them. My mother was extremely hesitant at first, but eventually relented.

My father couldn't have been more wrong.

People were quick to greet us and hold doors open. Others would stare and point, whispering behind cupped hands, their eyes wide as if seeing a ghost. None of it was ever meant in a derogatory or disrespectful fashion, though—quite the opposite, in fact. My parents were very much revered and admired, even after so many years out of the spotlight, and for many, the chance sighting of them was nothing short of exhilarating—especially upon seeing that the celebrity lovers who changed history had _finally _had a child together; that was something even my father hadn't expected to happen.

Although he had always hoped to start a family, he understood and accepted my mother's fears of having children. It was never that she didn't _want_ to have them, either. It was that she knew she would be fiercely protective, loving them more than life itself, and if anything ever happened to them, she'd never recover. She was worried about their—or I should say _our_—future well-being as much as hers and my father's. They had already gone through so much, and lost so many loved ones, that my mother couldn't take the chance of ever losing her own child. She was already haunted every night by the images of dead children she barely even knew.

For many years, she'd lived with crippling dread that the Hunger Games would be reinstated, or that the rebellion would reignite and she'd be forced into being involved again. It took her a while to trust the security she found after the war, being paranoid every second that the peace would somehow be interrupted. My father had many fears of his own in the beginning too. The biggest one being whether or not he could even trust the woman he was madly in love with.

But despite their initial reservations of getting close again, they knew they only had each other and that no one else—save for Haymitch—could ever understand what they'd gone through. For my father, there were many questions only my mother could answer, and in helping him gradually regain his memory and calling him back to reality as he battled his hijacking episodes, she found purpose in her life once again. She knew she could never leave him in the state he was in, nor would she want to, and as my mother had simply put it, they steadily and eventually 'grew back together.'

It wasn't long before he'd started sleeping in her bed every night, holding her in his arms and warding off the nightmares that plagued both of their minds. And it wasn't very long after _that_ when they both figured out there were other things they could do in bed together that would have a greater effect on having a peaceful night of sleep. It would also help them heal in ways words could never touch. It was the ultimate sign of trust to be so vulnerable and intimate with each other, and it was a huge step for both of them. And whether it was caused by an emotional reaction or a mere release of chemicals in his brain, my father's thoughts and memories became clearer and more vivid every time they made love, so they did it as often as they could. Seeing as to how neither of them had jobs or any need for one, some days they never even bothered to leave their bed or put clothes on.

After five years of spending every day together—talking, painting, working on their memory book, hunting, baking, lazing in the meadow, and making love—they officially married, knowing they could never live a happy life without the other. They didn't have a wedding, though. They simply registered as husband and wife quietly at the Justice Building. They didn't need or want the world to know. It wasn't for the cameras, it wasn't an act, and it wasn't anybody's business. It was for them, _only _them, and that's all that mattered.

Mind you, I was told this story of how they grew back together in my late teens/early twenties, on many different occasions by both of my parents, and even if at the time I was a little disgusted at imagining my parents in this way, it also warmed my heart to know they loved each other so dearly. As I got older, the mortification of hearing about their growing intimacy faded away until I was left with only admiration and hope. I looked at my parents, and I saw everything I could ever dream of finding. I wanted nothing less than a love like theirs.

Fifteen years after the war, and ten years into their marriage, an old friend of my mother paid an unexpected visit. As I was told, it wasn't exactly a happy reunion—especially for my father—but it brought a lot of closure, and it resulted in changing their lives forever. From what I remember, it was a man named Gale. He used to hunt with my mother. For years, they'd helped keep each other's families alive and shared a friendship built on necessity and survival. My mother admitted that she'd once entertained the idea of marrying him. For a while, even my father had resigned himself to that future. When my parents were in the second arena, he'd even tried to convince her that _that_ was what she had to survive and live for—marrying Gale, the guy who he had always felt second-best to, and someday having his children. As much as the idea of it pained him, my father just wanted her to be happy.

Gale wasn't alone when he came to see my parents, however. He had a beautiful wife with him and five children in tow. This surprised my mother, and woke up feelings of resentment in my father. It wasn't resentment towards my mother at all, though, but toward himself. He knew that along with the spoken fears my mother had about having children, a huge contributing factor to her resolve was based upon his condition. Though he was mostly back to the way he was before the hijacking, he still had relapses every now and again, and he felt that she didn't think he'd ever be a suitable parent. It was true, too. My mother wasn't sure _either_ of them would be suitable for bringing children into the world. But as she watched Gale's children playing enthusiastically with my father, and the way his whole demeanor brightened at the interaction, she felt hopeful. Something changed within her in an instant, and it both scared and thrilled her. She wanted to have my father's baby. She wanted to see him being that happy with their _own_ children, and she knew that since she was in her thirties, the window of opportunity was quickly closing for that ever to be a reality.

After Gale left, my parents were both in a state of despondency. It was like a slap in the face to see other people with big families and normal lives, and with all the noise from children suddenly gone it was eerily silent in the house. Though they had each other, they realized just how empty their lives had become. Sure, they kept busy with hobbies and each other, but they needed more, and my mother knew _exactly_ what that _more_ was. So, with a million fears running through her head, she made the decision to flush her birth control one night. She had no idea if she could even have children with all the things her body had gone through in her youth, so she decided not to tell my father. She didn't want to get his hopes up.

Even after so many years together, they were still very intimate with each other, and it only took two months for my mother to conceive me. When she realized she was pregnant, she locked herself in the bathroom for hours and cried out of intense fear and joy. She felt panic from the reality that she was going to be a mother and that, in a matter of months, she would be bringing a person into the world. She was paranoid and protective and already felt so much love it was overwhelming. Out of fear that she might miscarry, however, she didn't tell my father until she was half-way through the pregnancy.

When my parents tell the story now, they laugh and razz each other about it, but at the time, my father was scared to death that my mother was dying. She had morning sickness constantly, her body would swell up, she had an insatiable appetite yet she could never keep anything down, she'd lie in bed all day, lethargic and grumpy, and wouldn't let my father touch her at all. She hadn't even hunted in months, and this was how my father _knew_ something was extremely wrong with her. She insisted she was fine, but he wasn't buying it, so without her knowledge, he called for a doctor from the Capitol to come see her.

My mother was _furious._

She yelled for the doctor to get out of the room, and when my father tried to explain, she'd blurted in a heated rush, "I'm not _sick_, you idiot! I'm _pregnant_!"

He stared at her for a moment, completely speechless, and felt his legs give way. He sat on the floor for a few minutes, completely silent, with a dazed look in his eyes.

"Well… say something?" she asked, her voice trembling and tears clouding her eyes. Was he happy? Was he upset? She felt guilty for the abrupt way she'd broken the news to him. And what if she was wrong? What if he'd changed his mind about having children?

He opened his mouth a few times and shook his head. He met her eyes searchingly and bit his lip. After what felt like an eternity for my mother, he whispered uncertainly, "Real…?"

With a tear slipping from her eye, she nodded and smiled, "Yes, Peeta. _Very _real."

My father once told me that he'd thought he knew what happiness was, but that moment truly defined the word for him.

For the next few months, he cooked constantly for her, gave her massages, and even if it was horribly off-key and my mother playfully teased him about it, he sang songs to her growing belly. He wanted her to be as comfortable as possible, and my mother said he was nothing short of manic about it. She'd never seen him so full of life, and his enthusiastic happiness solidified to her that she had made the right choice. Though she still had natural fears and nightmares of people coming to take her children away or of them getting reaped, she knew they were going to do just fine as parents. She had no doubt that my father would be fantastic—and she was absolutely right.

When I was born, my father said he wasn't able to hold me for almost a whole day, because as soon as they placed me in my mother's arms, she refused to let me leave them. She simply stared down at me in a complete daze. My father eventually gave up on holding me and sat down beside her, alternating between kissing her and kissing me, and touching her and touching me, and he couldn't stop commenting on how perfect I was and how much I resembled my mother. When she finally found her voice again, she turned to him with a disbelieving smile and said with a hoarse laugh, "I'm a _mother_, Peeta…."

"I remember telling you once that you'd be a great mother someday and I _meant_ it. You're going to be _wonderful_," he replied meaningfully, and these words were not lost upon her.

"I hope so," she answered as she stared down at me with fear and joy and hope. "At least I know I chose the right person to find out with."

They never let me out of their sight, and they never let me wander far.

I had a nursery with a crib, but it was never really used. My father eventually moved the crib into their room, but still I rarely slept in it. Instead, they'd place me in a small cradle in between them on the bed. They barely got any sleep in the first few months, not because I cried a lot or kept them awake, but because they'd both stare at me in adoration, feeling proud and protective, reflecting on just how far they'd come.

Haymitch, a plump old man with grey hair, seemed to make the biggest changes upon my arrival, though.

I learned that he used to mentor my parents during the Hunger Games and was the only Victor from District 12 besides them. He'd watched 46 local children be reaped and murdered before the games had finally come to an end. His mother, brother, and girlfriend had been murdered by the president when he was only a teenager, and he lived a very lonely, depressing life for the next 23 years—until my parents came along. They told me he'd drink constantly and was extremely apathetic when they first met him.

That's not the Haymitch _I_ know, however.

When he'd come over to visit my parents after I was born, he'd simply stare at me with curiosity and anxiety, as if afraid of getting too close—emotionally _and_ physically.

My mother and father didn't trust his balance or motor skills enough to let him hold me, but once I was old enough to crawl, he'd warmed up to me enough to sit down on the floor and shake a rattle, play peek-a-boo, or pretend to make a stuffed animal talk. It'd amuse me to no end, and I'd crawl into his lap, give him hugs and kisses, and he'd laugh and hug me back. My mother and father said it warmed their hearts to see our interactions, to see Haymitch so carefree and genuinely happy, and when they'd asked him to be my godfather and started referring to him as 'Grandpa Haymitch' to me, he'd get tears in his eyes and sometimes have to excuse himself from the room.

I surprised everyone when my first word was his name. It came out more like 'H'mish' but it was enough to make him cry without shame.

And that was the very first day of his sobriety.

Life was pretty simple in Victor's Village.

I'd help Grandpa Haymitch feed his geese. Or I'd pick vegetables and berries with my mother in her garden, filling myself up with strawberries and green beans as she'd hum my favorite songs. My favorite thing to do was help my father bake, though. He'd sit me on the counter and have me contribute in small ways, like adding chocolate chips or a cup of flour, before giving me some sort of sweet afterwards. I always loved sampling the dough he made. It didn't matter what kind; whether cookie or bread, it was _always_ delicious, and my father would laugh and call me his 'dough baby.'

By the age of four, they still never let me out of their sight, and I was still sleeping between them every night.

My mother feared they were coddling me far too much and that if I continued to sleep in their bed, I might grow into thinking that was the norm. Of course, I'm sure she also missed sleeping in my father's arms and being intimate with him. After all, there's only so much intimacy a couple can have with a toddler sleeping in their bed every night.

So they moved me to a room with painted walls of trees, daisies, dandelions, butterflies, birds, and any other animal you could think of. Stars shimmered and glowed upon my ceiling, contrasting the dark blue sky which faded into violet, red, pink, orange, and finally yellow as a lazy setting sun peeked out from behind my toybox.

This was all hand-painted by my father, of course. I'd watched him paint it little-by-little every evening for years. When I was a bit older, I learned that my mother would hunt during this time, but as a toddler I never really noticed her absence. I'd sit on the floor with paper and crayons, completely mesmerized as I watched my father bring boring walls to life. He'd always ask my opinion, too—if he asked me what animal I wanted to see and I said a bunny, he'd paint one. And if he asked what friend that bunny should have and I said a lion, he'd never dare question it.

He'd often sit me atop his shoulders, hand me the paintbrush, and enthusiastically direct me where to place a stroke or a swirl of color. With his friendly blue eyes twinkling with pride, he'd praise me highly for my minimal contribution to his beautiful mural, and I'd feel like the most special girl in the whole world.

My father _always _had a way of making you feel that way, though.

There was one wall he'd left stark white, however, and I'd always wondered why. So one day, with a point of my chubby little finger, I finally asked, "Why don't you ever paint _that _wall, Daddy?"

He grinned and winked knowingly as he said, "_That_ wall is going to be painted by an amazing artist someday—one _far_ better than I could _ever_ dream of being."

"But… nobody could be better than _you_!" I replied defensively, my mouth hanging open in disbelief.

He laughed as he picked me up, hugged me, and kissed my cheek. As he playfully ruffled my hair, he answered vaguely, "Oh, I certainly think she will be."

I never quite understood what he meant at the time, and of course I didn't agree that anyone could _ever_ be better than my father, but I didn't inquire any further. Not until I was finally being moved into the room did his statement begin to make sense.

My father carried me to the room and sat me down on the bed without a word. I watched curiously as he went over to the closet, pulled a wooden box from the top shelf, and came to sit beside me.

"Are you going to paint today?" I asked eagerly.

He smiled wistfully and shook his head, "Not me, cupcake. Remember that _amazing _artist I was telling you about before? The one who's going to paint that ugly white wall into something beautiful?" I nodded slowly, my eyes narrowing in confusion as he continued, "Well, that artist is moving into this very room tonight. Do you think she'll like it?"

I nodded again, but with pouted lips. I didn't like the idea of just any old person moving into the room that my father and I had spent so much time in painting together. I wasn't about to give up the room with flowers and sunsets and trees and pretty animals.

"I _do_ think she'll like it, Daddy," I answered with my bravest face, though my voice was trembling with the tears I was keeping back. "But… but I _love_ it and I don't want her to move in here! I don't even care about the ugly wall!"

My father chuckled and raised his eyebrows in amusement, "Is that so?"

I nodded again, tears prickling my eyes and my bottom lip trembling.

He sighed loudly as he placed the old wooden box between us. For a moment, he closed his eyes tightly as if preparing himself for something and said nothing as his hand trembled on the latch.

"What's that?" I asked, noticing the engraving on the lid of an encircled bird holding an arrow in its beak. He licked his lips, gulped, and finally opened the box. My question was immediately answered as numerous paints, charcoals, and pastels of every color met my eyes. I could tell they'd been used before, but I'd never seen my father use them.

"This…" His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat with a slight shake of his head. "This was mine… when I was younger."

"But why don't you use them anymore?"

"I was saving them for someone special," he smiled at me with tears in his eyes. "I was hoping someone would create something _beautiful_ with them one day." I frowned, thinking he was talking about the awesome artist that was moving into the room, and I suddenly couldn't bring myself to look up at him again—I knew I'd start crying if I did. "And that's why I'm giving them to _you_."

My mouth dropped open and my eyes widened in surprise.

"_Me_?" I whispered in awe.

"Yes, _you_," he assured me with a kiss on the forehead. "You're going to need them to paint pretty things on that wall."

"You… you want _me _to…?" I started in confusion. "But what about—"

He picked up a paintbrush and placed it in my palm before gently curling my fingers around it and enveloping my tiny hand within his own. "Of course. You're the best artist I know. Are you up for the job?"

I was skeptical, but eager to show him that I could live up to his expectations. Beaming with excitement, I nodded enthusiastically, "All right. I'll do it!"

"That's the spirit!" he chuckled. "Any ideas of what you'll paint first?"

I shrugged and raised my eyebrows earnestly, "Maybe me and you and Mommy and Grandpa Haymitch all being happy together. That sound good to you?"

"That sounds _great _to me," he answered quietly as he tucked a strand of my wavy dark hair behind my ear. I noticed a tear rolling down his cheek and I felt confused—why was he sad about that? Without a word, I quickly moved over and wiped his tear away before wrapping my arms around his neck and giving him a kiss on the cheek, and he wasted no time returning my hug.

"Don't cry, Daddy. It'll be okay," I whispered with a reassuring nod. "I'll make everything really pretty, I promise."

"You already have, cupcake," he replied, and when he pulled back he looked at me meaningfully. "Can I ask you another favor?" I nodded eagerly and he gave me an approving smile. "Since you love this room _so much_, I was wondering if you'd like it to be yours?"

"You and Mommy don't want me in your room anymore?" I asked with a disheartened frown.

He shook his head and smiled, "Oh no, me and your mommy_ love_ having you in our room. Big girls need their _own _room, though, and I figured since we spent so much time together making _this_ one pretty and you're going to be painting the wall—"

"Okay," I answered before he could finish. With a sigh, I looked at him with wide, questioning eyes, "Can I still come and sleep with you if I have a bad dream, though?"

"Always," he answered with a smile and a kiss on top of my head.

Later that night, as they tucked me into my new bed, my parents held hands tightly as if trying to give each other strength. My father told me that all the animals in the meadow we'd painted would look over me and keep me safe, and my mother agreed. After numerous kisses and hugs and encouraging words for sleeping on my own, they finally made their way to my bedroom door to leave.

As a slight panic grew inside of me about being left alone, I sat up and called out to my mother, "Please sing me a song before you go?"

She nodded quickly, looking surprised, "Of course."

My father smiled and kissed her quickly on the lips, and with a final squeeze of her hand, left her alone to sing me a lullaby. My mother didn't sing often—or at least she hadn't for a while at that time—but when she did, I was just as mesmerized by her voice as I was by my father's paintings.

She laid next to me and ran her fingers soothingly through my hair as she sang to me the song I'd come to know by heart as The Meadow Song:

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow  
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow  
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes  
And when you awake, the sun will rise_

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
Here the daisies guard you from harm  
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
Here is the place where I love you_

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away  
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray,_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay  
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
Here the daisies guard you from every harm  
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
Here is the place where I love you_

Before the song ended, I'd already fallen asleep.

I woke later that night and was startled for a moment as I I'd forgotten where I was, but then I saw the glowing stars above me, the friendly animals on my wall, and remembered the beautiful words from my mother's song, and I fell into a peaceful sleep once more.

It was either late at night or early morning when I felt the bed shift and someone wrap their arms around me as they pulled me into an embrace. I could feel their body trembling and the wetness on their cheeks as they leaned down and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"What's wrong?" I muttered in sleepy confusion.

"It's only Mommy, sweetie," my mother answered with a shaky whisper. "Sorry for waking you."

I turned in her arms and looked up in concern, bringing a hand to her cheek to wipe the wetness away. "Did you have a bad dream again?"

Even as a young child, I was aware my mother frequently had horrible nightmares. I'd often wake her with a kiss or she'd wake me with a hug, and it was simply a normal occurrence for me then. I didn't know why she had the nightmares or what they were about. They just _were_, and I didn't know any different.

She nodded and smiled sadly, looking slightly ashamed, but didn't say anything.

"It'll be okay," I reassured her with a croaky voice and heavy eyelids. "You'll be safe here."

"I know," she answered, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. "Let's get some sleep now."

I nodded as I made myself comfortable lying on my mother's chest, her arms wrapped protectively around me and her hand rubbing my back as I fell asleep again.

In the morning, I woke between both of my parents in my bed, their hands entwined together over me.

My father soon got into the habit of telling me stories before I'd go to sleep. He was always very good with words, painting imagery with his mouth with just as much finesse as his did with his hands.

I'd listen with rapt attention as he'd tell me the continuing tale of a beautiful girl with a dress of flames called the Girl-On-Fire, who magically transforms into a Mockingjay, and the boy who'd loved her since they were children. I was absolutely enthralled by the bravery of the Star-Crossed Lovers. At this time I knew nothing of the Games or my parent's history, and I had no idea what he was telling me was based on truth. I was five, and far too young to know the gritty details, so he'd given me a sugar-coated version. He felt I should know _something_, though. He wanted me to have an inkling of knowledge on the subject before I started school in the fall.

Mother would come in sometimes and listen silently, now and again nodding with a faraway look or a sad smile on her face.

I woke my mother excitedly on the first day of school with a hug and kiss to her stomach. She was six months pregnant with my brother and I was excited to be a big sister more than anything.

"Hey, sweetie," she said with a sleepy voice. "It's a big day, huh?"

"Yes!" I said excitedly, beaming at her. "Come on, me and Daddy made blackberry pancakes for you!"

As she came in and sat down at the kitchen table she shook her head at him with a smile and arched an eyebrow, "Two braids, Peeta? Really?"

"_And_ a red plaid dress!" he winked.

I didn't know what they meant, but I later found out this was what my mother had worn on her first day of kindergarten—the first day my father ever set eyes on her.

I set a plate of pancakes in front of her and talked to her stomach, as I'd gotten in the habit of doing. "There you go, little sister. I made you some yummy-yummy pancakes! Hope you like them."

"What if it's a little brother?" my father asked with a laugh.

"I'll love a brother, too," I shrugged. "But I really want a little sister, and I want her to have yellow hair like yours, Daddy."

My mother made a slight coughing sound and promptly excused herself.

I had no idea that I'd just filled her with an intense fear that she might have a child who would resemble her long-dead little sister.

When I was older and I learned who Primrose Everdeen was, it explained quite a bit. I always had questions concerning this person named Prim, but I never received any answers until I was old enough to understand. All I knew before then was that my mother would sometimes call me this name by accident and become extremely sad and silent all of a sudden.

I remember finding a box of things with the word _Prim_ on it when I was six and thinking it was a bunch of things that were meant for me. By all outward appearances and no knowledge otherwise, why wouldn't a little girl believe clothes that were nearly her size were her own? So I put them on. I found a pretty gold pin—with the same bird and arrow that was on my artbox—in the bottom, and I put that on too. There was a journal, but I wasn't interested in that, and a bunch of medical stuff—such as a stethoscope and bandages.

Excited about finding all these new things, I rushed downstairs, found my baby brother, and pretended to be a nurse checking his heartbeat with the stethoscope.

When my mother came into the room a moment later, I nearly killed her with shock.

She closed her eyes as if trying to keep her cool, and in a deadly calm voice told me to put everything back where I found it. I argued that I wanted to keep the things I found, and why couldn't I? She narrowed her eyes angrily at me and shouted for me to go put everything back or I'd get a spanking. I believed her, too. I'd never before been yelled at in such a way or been threatened with a spanking by her, so I knew she was being serious. I immediately started crying and ran upstairs to return everything to the box.

I didn't understand what I'd done wrong, and her words had hurt me just as bad as a spanking would have. I went to my room and hid under the blankets, my heart completely broken.

My father came to console me soon after, holding me in his arms as I cried and asked him what I'd done wrong. He told me that my mother didn't mean what she said about the spanking but that I should leave the box of things alone because they belonged to her, and seeing those things made her sad. I still didn't understand why simple things like clothes would make her react so harshly, so I asked why. He was silent for a moment before sighing and answering, "They just _do_, cupcake. You'll understand when you're a little older."

My mother came in a few minutes later and asked to be alone with me. Her face was tearstained and she looked absolutely distraught. I pursed my lips and crossed my arms when she held her arms out to me for a hug.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I would never hurt you. I… I was just surprised. Those things… they belonged to someone I once knew, someone very special to me who I'll never see again. You didn't know, though, and I shouldn't have kept those things in a spot where you could find them."

I still didn't quite understand why it was such a big deal, but I hated seeing my mother cry, so I hugged her and told her I was sorry and everything would be okay, and that I would never touch those things again.

I never saw that box again anyway.

When I was seven and school had begun once more, my mother decided she would give herself a reason to get up in the mornings by walking me to school. I was excited and eager for all my friends at school to see my beautiful, amazing mother. My father had always walked me to school before then, and the other children adored him. Of course, this also had a lot to do with the morning cookies he'd bring them.

They didn't have the reaction I'd expected when they saw my mother, though. In fact, it was quite the opposite: they thought she was _ugly_. It made me sad and angry and defensive, the things they said, but also embarrassed. I'd never seen my mother's flaws before, and it was like I was seeing her, for the first time, the way everyone else did.

When I got home, I kept silent. I completely ignored her all evening and cried that night when I went to bed. The only thing I could think about was the ridicule I'd received from classmates about my mother's burn scars and the bald spots on the back of her head.

The next morning she came to my room to wake me for school, and the panic at the thought of my classmates seeing her again made me do something I'd regret for the rest of my life. I started crying, and when she asked what was wrong, I told her adamantly and honestly, "I don't want you to take me to school anymore."

"Why?" she asked with concern, wiping a tear from my cheek.

"Because…" For a moment, I hesitated to say the real reason. But then I remembered how Nathaniel, the boy I'd had a crush on at the time, had laughed along with the others. I was humiliated and that's all I could understand at the time. I felt angry and hurt, and I projected that animosity onto my mother as I'd said with disdain, "Because you're _ugly_ and I don't want people to see you with me!"

At first, she looked at me in confusion, as if she might have heard incorrectly—never once had I told my mother anything so horrible before. In fact, until that morning, I'd always told her how beautiful she was and how I wanted to look just like her. Still, I'd kept my face hard, and as she finally allowed my harsh words to sink in, they achieved their goal: I thoroughly broke my mother's heart. I said nothing as I watched tears fill her eyes and her jaw muscles clench. She touched her neck—the part where the ugly burn scars were the worst—and gave a slight shake of her head as if trying to forget something and regain her composure.

"Fine… that's fine. I'll have your father take you," she mumbled unevenly and left the room without a backward glance.

My mother never walked me to school again after that.

Something changed between my mother and me after that morning.

She evidently never told my father what I had said to her, whether it was out of pride or shame I don't know, but I was grateful for it. She still treated me with love and took care of me the same, but there was a wall she put up when she was around me. She didn't sing anymore, she frowned a lot, and there was a certain chill about her. My words had cut her deeply. She felt judged and hated by her own child, and she didn't really know how to handle it. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't help with these fears at all, either.

I very much preferred my father's company over my mother's and would spend most of my free time with him, baking and painting, and I'd only ask him for help with my schoolwork. He didn't think anything was wrong with this or that anything was out of the ordinary. My mother was far too prideful to let on that my favoritism hurt her, so she'd get into heated arguments with my father, telling him that he spoiled me and my brother far too much and that we needed to learn to be more appreciative of what we have.

Sometimes when my father would get upset, it'd bring on a rare hijacking flashback, which would scare all of us with their suddenness. They were frightening and heartbreaking to watch, and it only made my distaste for my mother grow since I blamed her for bringing them on.

Wanting to bridge the gap that was steadily growing between us, my mother decided to take me and my brother on her hunting trips to the woods. She attempted to teach us how to shoot a bow—which I had no interest in, as I thought it was barbaric and mean to kill animals. My brother loved it, though, and as he got older proved to share her archery talent.

She also gave us facts about herbs and berries and plants, stating we needed to know these things because they might save our lives one day. I never went into the woods except with her, and growing up in a mansion and never having to want for anything, I couldn't fathom how any of this knowledge could ever be of value, so I'd constantly sigh of boredom and ask when we could go back home.

After a couple attempts at trying to spend time with me in this way—and total disinterest on my part—she relented and quit taking me. My brother kept going, however, and enjoyed every minute of it.

As I got older, I started noticing in school how the older kids would look at me weird, whisper, or point. I had no idea why at the time, though. I would hear bits and pieces about the Hunger Games, and even hear my parents' names in passing, but for some reason I never paid much mind to it. Not until the day when a classmate came to school and told everyone that my mother was the Girl-On-Fire, the Mockingjay of the rebellion, and mentioned the Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12. My mind instantly recalled the stories my father had told me, but to me they were akin to fairy tales and I couldn't think of them as being real. I thought my classmate had lost his mind. My mother was burnt by fire, but she _wasn't_ the Girl-On-Fire.

There was _no way_ my storytime heroine could be my own mother.

I felt silly, but I finally asked my father about it when I was ten. He looked at me with wide eyes, and after seemingly debating whether to answer honestly or not, he stammered, "It's true. All of it."

I couldn't believe it. I was in shock. I had so many questions my head was spinning.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath so he wouldn't overwhelm himself, and told me that he and my mother would explain everything very soon.

That same night when my mother came to say goodnight before going to bed, I called for her to come sit by me. She seemed surprised and a bit wary, but she made her way over.

For the first time, I finally saw the pain and love in her eyes when she gazed at me… and I felt _horrible_. I was so ashamed and sorry about how I'd been treating her. Without a word, I hugged her tight, and after a moment of apparent shock, she embraced me in return and kissed the top of my head.

"Not that I'm complaining, but what's this about?" she murmured with a small laugh.

"For being a great mom," I answered, "I love you…"

"Well, I certainly love you too," she replied, but she sounded confused.

"I'm really sorry," I whispered.

"For what?"

"_Everything_."

She didn't say anything in reply, but kissed the top of my head again.

"Mom?" I began hesitantly with a small shrug, "Can you… can you sing me The Meadow Song? Like you used to when I was little? I really miss hearing you sing."

"Of course," she answered, and though I was still hugging her and couldn't see her face, from the tone of her voice I knew that she was smiling.

After she was done with the song, I smiled knowingly, my heart light and warm, and told her, "It _is_ true."

"What's true?" she asked bemusedly, arching an eyebrow.

"That you have a voice so beautiful it makes the birds stop to listen," I replied with a shrug. "Do you think… you could take me to the woods again sometime? I want to hear the mockingjays mimic you."

She nodded slowly, her eyes full of questions, but remained silent.

I don't think my mother knew what to say or how to react to my sudden change of attitude, and she didn't want to say anything that might change it back.

That weekend, after a wonderful picnic in a meadow full of dandelions and daisies – like the one painted on my wall, my parents sat me down and finally told me their story. The _real_ story. _Everything._

I learned of my mother's hard life after her father died, how she was starving and my father had thrown her the bread that saved her life. I learned of the Hunger Games. I learned that my gentle, loving parents who had never laid a hand on me in a violent way had killed children before, and that they were supposed to kill each other. I learned that they had to act like they were in love, but it was never an act on my father's part. It was never really an act on my mother's, either, but as she put it, she was 'young and confused about everything'.

I learned about the rebellion, and how my mother was the symbol of it – the Mockingjay. I finally found out what the bird with the arrow meant, how meaningful the box of paints my father had given me was , and why the box of clothes and nursing supplies meant so much to my mother.

I was told of my father's torture at the hands of the government and why he still has relapses. I learned of the bombing of District 12 and how his whole family had perished in it. I learned of my Aunt Prim, what my mother's nightmares were about, and why some days it's hard for her to find the motivation to get out of bed.

It was overwhelming to hear all this, but they wanted me to know _everything_—every detail, no matter how hard it was to tell, because they wanted me to hear the truth from them before I read about it in a misinformed textbook at school.

Of course, all of this wasn't explained in one evening. It took a long time to get through everything, and even today, in my early thirties, I learn new things. They showed me the book they made together, and every night they'd flip to a new page and tell me all about the person depicted on it: Finnick, Rue, Cinna, Prim, Madge, and countless others.

It was heartbreaking to hear about so many good people that were gone from this world forever. Sometimes we'd all just sit and cry together over the tragedy of it all.

I gained a whole new appreciation and respect for my parents after that. Their perseverance and loyalty to each other was nothing short of amazing to me.

I made a habit of telling my mother how beautiful and wonderful she was each day, which she was - in every way. I'd tell my father how thankful I was to eat the bread and cakes he'd make, which I used to take for granted. I'd go to the woods with my mother, and I enjoyed every moment we shared together. I hugged and kissed my parents any chance I could get and told them often how much I loved and appreciated them.

They were lucky just to be alive, let alone _together_, and I felt even luckier to be their daughter.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for reading! I'd **love** to hear what you think. This is a one-shot, but I plan on writing more for this universe as the children/Everlark get older if there's any interest in it. Feel free to find me on tumblr at dandelionsunsetff if you'd like to say hi or anything.


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